


Broken

by TheShyestIcicle



Series: Coral Roses [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Amputation, And an excuse to put my Inquisitor through the wringer, Bittersweet Ending, Character struggling to cope, Dorian/Inquisitor mentioned, Hurt No Comfort, I gotta write more Dorian one day though, I'm Sorry, M/M, Mentions of Blood, This is more of a charcter study, Trauma, he doesn't actually show up, i gotta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-10
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2019-03-16 04:26:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13628565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheShyestIcicle/pseuds/TheShyestIcicle
Summary: There, right there... In front of him, the Eluvian...It is right there, he's so close, he can-The Inquisitor falls to his knees.He may die here... and maybe that won't be so bad?





	Broken

**Author's Note:**

> A small story exploring how my main Inquisitor, Salwyn Lavellan, handles Trespasser. 
> 
> Let's just say he doesn't handle it well. At all.

Stepping… one step. Another. And another. One more. It’s there, right there.

Keep… walking… he…

No.

His knees strike against the cold ground.

_-it is very cold, isn’t it?-_

Walking is… impossible. It hurts. Too much. Everything, his arm, his heart, his arm…

_It hurts-!_

Oh. He stares numbly at- at his-

Oh. He doesn’t… doesn’t have an arm…

_-red, red and warm, crimson-_

That’s his blood, isn’t it?

Yes. It is.

Yes. There is no longer an arm.

He cradles his bleeding stump to his chest. It won’t stop the flow. Too much blood. He’ll die.

But that’s okay.

_-he thinks, the Mark will flare, a green spark, but there is no Mark, no arm-_

He laughs. There is no Mark because there is no arm. Fen’harel, Dread Wolf, Solas, he wants to say, you stopped the Mark, but did you save me? Did you really save me?

No, he thinks. He will bleed here, among the stone Qunari, victims of the Dread Wolf, of Fen’harel.

_NO!_

_-dimly, he waits for the Anchor to flare, it always does now, when he’s agitated-_

Not Fen’harel, but Solas! Solas, his friend, his mentor! Lethallin. No one else but Solas, not the trickster of the stories his mother used to tell him, not the cruel wolf with the-

But the Dread Wolf will tear down the Veil and doom the world. And the Dalish, the city elves, they are not his people.

_-no, his arm is gone, the Anchor is gone, where is the pain?-_

He tastes salt on his tongue. They will all die. There is nothing to be done, for Fen’harel, Solas, is more powerful than anyone could ever hope, dread, fear, and there is no one but a bleeding elf to stand against him.

He smiles through his tears. The Herald of Andraste, the Inquisitor. A mighty hero he is! Brought to his knees only feet away from the Eluvian, bleeding to death, broken, broken before even this, for even now he cannot speak, cannot produce more than a whimper, and he remembers-

What use is a broken elf, an elf who cannot speak, could never speak? What use is an elf who became the prophet of a god he does not worship and, in doing so, lost his connection to the People. What use is a Dalish First who can no longer be counted among the People, who was brought to his knees?

_-the blood, he thinks, is not stopping-_

The Eluvian… it ripples and he stares at it. Is he still worthy to look upon an artifact of his ancestors?

No, he thinks not.

And then there are warm arms around him, a voice calling over and over,

“ _Amatus._ ”

_-should he know that voice? Perhaps not-_

He is so tired. He rests his head against the voice’s chest. It’s warm.

* * *

 

Well. Salwyn stares at his stump. The amputation was so neatly done. He couldn’t expect any less from Solas’ magic.

It hurts, sometimes, the empty space where his arm used to be. The healer says it is normal, and Salwyn believes her. She says it with a quiet sympathy in her eyes, as if she expects it to upset him. But this phantom pain does not. It is normal, as the healer said, and Salwyn has felt more pain than this. And he likes it, this pain, because it reminds him of what he lost, of Solas, of the Eluvians, of the silence of a courtyard full of statues of once living beings.

And this pain will remind him of who he is now.

Not the Herald of Andraste, not a Dalish First, and, soon, not even the Inquisitor.

Just… Salwyn. Salwyn Lavellan, a broken, bent, and defeated elf. It is all he is now, and it is what he will be for a long time to come.

Perhaps for the rest of his life.

_-he thinks again, of Solas. Where is Fen’harel now?-_

* * *

 

A servant enters, a clean and pressed formal uniform in hand. The Exalted Council has waited long enough, after all, for the Inquisitor to heal, and they must have their answer.

What will become of the Inquisition?

Salwyn smiles at the servant and shakes his head when the servant holds out the outfit.

 _Take the clothing with you,_ he writes, for the servant does not understand his sign language, the language of the hands Solas taught him. _I will not be wearing it._

The servant protests, of course, for the Inquisitor must look professional at all times.

But Salwyn only smiles bitterly and shakes his head. No. He will not appear before the Council as the Inquisitor, as clean and pressed as the outfit, in control and unbreakable.

No. He will appear as he is, his hair disheveled, his thin clothing rumpled, dark circles under his eyes. He will show them exactly what the Inquisitor is.

A broken and defeated elf, but firm in one thing: the will to no longer play as their precious Herald.

Salwyn stands, waves off the helping hand of the servant. He will walk, limp an all, poor balance due to lack of an arm. He will be slow, yes, but he is already late, so what do a few minutes more matter?

He takes a step- pauses, as something crinkles under his foot.

_-so much paper, all crumpled, scattered all over the floor-_

Salwyn scribbles a quick note, thrusts it at the servant who is already bending to clean up the mess.

_Do not worry over the mess. It is my fault and I will clean it when I return._

He gives the unsure servant a reassuring smile. Yes, it really is fine. No, he will not get in trouble, it isn’t his mess anyway.

* * *

 

He stands outside the doors to the Council room, ignoring the stares and the awkward shifting from the two guards likely wondering why the Inquisitor isn’t entering.

Salwyn’s heart pounds, for after this, there is no going back. It is almost enough to make him turn and run, but he shakes his head, earning more stares from the guards.

No. He will not hide from the Council. They will see him.

Impulsively, he places a hand against the pendant lying cool against his neck. A crystal necklace, one for communication.

One Salwyn, of course, cannot use, but Dorian can.

He thinks again of the little notes crumpled on his floor. Letters all, telling Dorian why Salwyn has turned him away from his door these last few days. Telling him he cannot bear to have Dorian see him like this, so broken, a shadow of who he used to be.

He will never give them to Dorian.

He wonders if he should even keep the pendant.

_Ir abelas, ma vhenan. You deserve far, far better than me._

* * *

 

It is odd, feeling lighter than ever, yet still so, so bitter.  Salwyn lifts the large book, the writ from Divine Justinia, lifts it for all the Council to see.

And he smiles and lets it fall to the floor.

Turns and leaves the room, ignoring the shocked shouts. Whatever they might think of this, there is one thing that is very clear.

The Inquisition is over. The Inquisitor is no more.

Just an elf.

Just Salwyn


End file.
